I used to go to play parties which were ‘BDSM only.’ You could spank, whip and beat each other to oblivion, but you weren’t allowed to fuck on the furniture. Perhaps that’s where this wank fantasy comes from: the idea that fucking is forbidden only makes me want to fuck more. I mean… obviously.

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“Yes. Fuck. That’s it. That’s good. Your dick feels so fucking good in me right now. Pull out when you come, though: I want to watch your jizz squirt all over me.”

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Let me envelop your dick. Submerge it inside me, like I’m slipping you into a warm bath. When I look at you, this is all I want: everything else would be too active on your part. I need to fuck you like I need to stroke your brow with a cool cloth, and whisper soothing words into your ear.

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Waterloo station. Bottom of the escalator, going up. Brunette, mid-thirties, backpack full of last-minute Christmas presents. The last time she fucked was yesterday – a quick make-up shag after a week of loneliness. He slipped out of her just as he started to come, and she conjures the memory of the wetness spreading on the inside of her thighs, and tries not to let the other commuters see her smile.

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The problem with writing a non-fiction blog is that sometimes the characters can get boring. I really like the guy I fuck, so I can’t really sink my teeth into stories that have darker emotions attached. So recently, on a bit of a holiday from my normal blogging, I wrote a whole bunch of erotic fiction pieces based on different kinds of fuck. Hate fucks, pity fucks, spite fucks and so on. This one is a revenge fuck.

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